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STEVENSON'S   SHRINE 


STEVENSON'S 
SHRINE 


THE    RECORD    OF    A    PILGRIMAGE 


By   LAURA    STUBBS 


BOSTON 

L.   C.    PAGE  &  COMPANY 

INCORPORATED 

1903 


-  ^^3^ 


Contents 


PAGE 


Chapter  I.     The  Voyage — Auckland  to  Tonga    •          •  .  C 

Chapter  II.      „         „          Vavau  to  Samoa         .          .  .  i^ 

Chapter  III.     „         „          Vailima  and  the  SHRINE .  .  26 

Chapter  IV.     The  Aftermath— Fiji  to  Sydney     •         -  •  53 


ENGr.ISH 


List  of  Plates 


The  Grave         ..... 

A  Coral  Garden       .... 

Tonga  Village  .... 

Trilithon  in  Tonga 

Harbour  of  Vavau   .... 

Kava-Making    ..... 

Town  of  Apia  ..... 

"Road  of  the  Loving  Heart" 

Kava  Feast        ..... 

The  House  at  Vailima  (Front  View) 

The  Hall  at  Vailima 

View  of  Vailima  from  the  Grave   . 

The  Staircase  at  Vailima 

The  House  at  Vailima  (End  View) 

Native  Feast  at  Vailima 

One  of  the  Five  Rivers  at  Vailima 

Another  of  the  Five  Rivers   . 

Dance  of  Samoan  Natives 

View  in  Fiji      ..... 

Fijian  Boat       ..... 

3 


Frontispiece 

'To  face  page 

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13 

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15 

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18 

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23 

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27 

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29 

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31 

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32 

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JJ 

42 

44 

46 

48 

50 

SZ 

56 

1NG  SAMOA  AND  SOCIETY  ISLANDS 


MAEOTJESAS 

(Erenchj    . 
Maftae  arSiaou It  ^^-^^'oLL 

ihandar  :Nuta  Hiv-a  U    .Uakmui  or    „ 
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-10 


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."^  s-  xy^^-' 


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^ablol.  P-^Senry  .  \'        ,Zcpmmt I. 

'Q.OuTrlotteZ 


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l20 


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Carysihrt  L 

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•^  «  UTXncp    ' 

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tMuT  i 


MoraneZt 


JUangOyRiva  or 
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3985 


Scale    o£  Miles 


2375 


100     50     O 


300         400 


sirich. 


iVA  AJKJolinjtoiiJjiinlp^^.EAnfeir^A  I«i.iim 


MAP  OF  A  PORTION  OF  THE  SOUTH  PACIFIC  SHOWING  SAMOA  AND  SOCIETY  ISLANDS 


PTitenlx  I'.li^fr 

nmirurl-  HuUtA''' 


3300  5^// 


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650      /\/',y  SAMO'a    oh 

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MaTi'iliilti     Islands 

lUirsml. 


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Moapoa  i» 


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TllOPir     OF    CAPRicbRij 


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ifm.^/ 


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,M2tiQaiiLL  .mjiL  Tub 


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Oparol. 


•Ro^it{Fr}    .Jiaesl. 


^ 


CHAPTER  I 

"  The  first  love,  the  first  sunrise,  the  first  South  Sea  Island,  are 
memories  apart  and  touch  a  virginity  of  sense." 

"  My  soul  went  down  with  these  moorings  whence  no  windlass 
may  extract  nor  any  diver  fish  it  up." 

Robert  Louis  Stevenson. 

T  A  LOVER  of  the  man,  personally  unknown  to  me,  save 
-*-  ^  through  the  potency  of  his  pen,  journeyed  across  the 
world  in  order  to  visit  his  grave,  and  to  get  into  direct 
touch  with  his  surroundings. 

The  voyage  to  the  Antipodes  does  not  come  within 
the  compass  of  this  little  book  ;  enough  that  in  September, 
1892,  I  left  Auckland  (New  Zealand)  in  the  Union  Com- 
pany's Steamship  Manipouri,  for  a  cruise  among  the  South 
Sea  Islands,  and  that  our  first  port  of  call  was  Nukualofa, 
one  of  the  Tongan  group. 

5 


Here  I  stood  on  a  little  grass-covered  wharf,  and, 
looking  down  through  the  translucent  water,  made  my 
first  acquaintance  with  a  coral  garden.  Oh  !  that 
wonderful  water  world  with  its  wealth  of  sprays,  flowers, 
and  madrepores,  amongst  which  the  tiny  rainbow-coloured 
fishes  darted  in  and  out  like  submarine  humming-birds 
— wingless,  but  brilliant — living  flecks  of  colour,  flashing 
through  a  fairy  region.  The  unreality  of  the  scene  took 
hold  of  me.  If  this  were  real  I  must  be  enchanted, 
looking  downwards  with   enchanted  eyes. 

As  one  who  dreams  I  walked  inland,  following  a  most 
fascinating  green  turf  path  soft  as  velvet  to  the  tread. 
There  are  no  roads  in  Nukualofa,  green  turf  path? 
serve  instead  ;  indeed  the  whole  of  the  little  island 
with  its  long  stately  avenues  of  coconut  palms,  its  shelter- 
ing bowers  of  banyan  trees,  its  groups  of  bananas,  anc 
groves  of  orange  and  other  tropical  trees  too  numerous  anc 
too  varied  to  describe,  seems  one  beautiful  and  universa 
park.  Every  few  minutes  I  came  across  a  vivid  patch  O' 
scarlet,  yellow,  or  white  hibiscus;  great  trailing  length 
of  blue  convolvulus,  many  tendrilled  and  giant  blossomed 
garlanded  the  trees,  and  not  unfrequently  flung  an  almos 
impenetrable  barrier  across  the  path.  These  paths  an 
separated  from  the  universal  park  by — a  fencing  of  barbe( 


wire  !  But  the  little  tram  line,  which  terminates  at  the 
wharf,  was  bordered  with  turf  of  a  moss-like  softness,  and 
even  between  its  rails  the  grass  grew  thickly/ 

The  whole  island  was  encircled  by  a  giant  fringe  of 
coral,  white  and  glistening,  at  one  side  of  which  was  a 
natural  opening  leading  to  the  little  harbour.  The  light 
at  sunset  upon  this  reef  was  like  the  refraction  of  some 
hidden  prism,  shimmering  opalescent,  a  suffusion  of  vague 
and  unspeakably  lovely  hues. 

After  walking  for  some  time  I  suddenly  came  within 
sight  of  a  palm-fringed  lagoon.  Upon  its  unruffled  blue 
surface  two  native  girls  were  paddling  a  small  canoe.  Their 
attire  was  slight,  and  their  polished  skins,  gleaming  with  coco- 
nut oil,  shone  like  mahogany.  They  stared  for  a  moment 
at  the  new  arrival  with  all  the  naivete  of  children,  then 
with  a  rippling  laugh  they  paddled  to  the  bank  and 
began  to  talk.  As  I  listened  to  the  unknown  accents  of 
their  musical  tongue  I  was  filled  with   bitterness  to  think 


^  I  have  described  this  island  more  particularly  because  it  was  the  first  I 
visited,  and  has  ever  since  remained  "  a  memory  apart,  virginal."  But  look- 
ing back  I  realise  that  Nukualofa  is  by  no  means  a  beautiful  type  of  coral 
island,  since  in  common  with  all  the  Tongan  group  it  is  absolutely  flat,  and 
wholly  lacks  that  diversity  of  outline  (due  to  volcanic  agency)  which  is  the 
leading  characteristic  of  the  Samoan  and  Fijian  groups. 


that  though  so  near,  we  were  nevertheless  so  far  apart.  A 
smile  however  is  always  current  coin,  and  before  we  parted 
many  a  one  had  been  exchanged. 

In  slight  relief,  amid  the  brilliant-hued  orange-trees, 
the  tall  feathery-topped  coconut  palms,  the  dark  green 
spreading  bread-fruit  trees,  and  the  broad-leaved  pandamis 
or  screw-pines,  the  brown  huts  of  the  natives  showed  up  at 
intervals.  Flung  down  at  random  on  the  verdant  carpet, 
which  flourished  up  to  their  very  doors,  thatched  with  long 
screw-pine  leaves  and  lashed  together  with  coconut  fibre, 
with  never  an  angle  between  them,  I  have  been  assured,  by 
more  than  one  resident  of  authority,  that  they  stand  the 
brunt  of  a  hurricane  better  than  the  best  houses  built  by 
Europeans.  Outside  these  huts,  sitting  or  standing,  or 
lounging  about  in  indolent  inaction,  were  native  men, 
women,  and  children — dear  little  brown-skinned  babies, 
innocent  of  any  attire  save  their  original  "  birthday  suit," 
rolled  and  tumbled  on  the  grass.  As  I  passed  on  my  way 
the  women  and  girls  nodded  and  smiled,  and  gave  me  their 
musical  greeting  of  "  Mehola  lelai,"  and  before  I  was 
out  of  sight  called  after  me  "  Nofa,  Nofa  " — the  native 
"  Good-bye,"  which  means  literally  "  Stay,  stay."  And 
everywhere  could  be  heard  the  tap  tap  of  the  kava  stones, 
and  the  rhythmic  beating  out  of  the  "tapa." 

8 


This  "Tapa"  (or  "Ngata")  cloth  is  very  pretty.  It  is 
made  from  the  bleached  and  beaten  out  bark  of  a  tree,  and  is 
decorated  with  rude  designs  which  the  natives  trace  with  a 
piece  of  charred  stick,  and  which  represent  squares,  circles, 
angles,  stars,  even  at  times  the  outline  of  the  flying  fox. 
The  colouring  matter  used  to  complete  the  patterns  is 
of  a  black  or  brown  tint,  and  is  made  from  a  decoction 
of  bark  ;  a  piece  of  cloth,  or  hibiscus  fibre  is  employed 
as  a  brush,  and  when  the  work  is  finished  the  effect  is 
charming. 

I  tasted  a  green  coconut  plucked  direct  from  the  palm 
by  a  native,  who,  bribed  by  a  shilling,  scaled  the  long, 
straight  stem  at  my  request.  The  milk  contained  in  the 
shell  (though  perhaps  a  trifle  sickly)  was  deliciously  cool, 
and  on  a  hot  day  most  refreshing. 

The  attire  of  the  natives  of  the  Tongan  group  is 
extremely  picturesque  and  harmonises  admirably  with  their 
surroundings.  Holy  Tonga  and  indeed  all  the  islands  of 
this  group  are  subject  to  a  curious  law  which  enacts  that  all 
classes  of  natives,  whether  male  or  female,  must  wear  an 
upper  as  well  as  a  lower  garment.  Both  men  and  women 
adorn  themselves  with  flowers,  garlands  about  their  necks, 
wreaths  of  flowers  in  their  hair.  The  air  was  heavy  with 
the  scent  of  orange  blossom,  cape  jasmine,  and  frangipani. 


I  sat  on  the  trunk  of  a  fallen  tree  and  watched  the 
little  sheeny  blue-tailed  lizards  flicker  to  and  fro,  and  indeed 
it  was  delicious  to  feel  no  fear  of  poisonous  reptiles,  for  in 
these  delectable  isles  there  are  none,  no  snakes — save  the 
beautiful  and  harmless  water  snakes — no  scorpions,  no 
centipedes,  not  even  the  death-dealing  spider  of  New 
Zealand. 

Our  steamer  left  Nukualofa  that  evening,  and  we  took 
on  board  a  number  of  natives  bound  for  Samoa.  The 
entire  population  of  the  island  seemed  to  have  gathered  ' 
together  in  a  picturesque  group  on  the  shore  to  bid  them 
farewell  ;  and  this  group  formed  a  brilliant  foreground  to 
our  parting  view  of  Tonga,  with  its  green  esplanade,  its  villa 
palace,  its  church  and  its  white  Government  Offices,  the 
latter  of  which  stood  boldly  out  against  the  groves  of 
bananas  and  long  feathery  vistas  of  coconut  palms.^  ! 

We  steamed  out  of  the  harbour  of  Nukualofa  by  a 
different   passage  to  that   by   which  we  had  entered,  and  ' 
before  we  passed  the  reef  we  had  to  make  our  way  through 
a  perfect   network  of  little  islands,  all  alike,  palm-fringed 
and  scattered  about  at  random  like  flowers  in  a  meadow. 

Like  beasts  of  prey  the  white  waves  leapt  against  the 

^   His   Majesty  King  George  of  Tonga  being  in  residence,  the  villa  < 
palace  was  inaccessible  to  visitors. 


10 


coral  barrier,  and  to  right  and  left  of  us  for  a  brief  space 
showed  white  gleams  of  reef,  but  a  moment  later  we  had 
left  the  treacherous  surf  behind  us  and  were  steaming  across 
a  deep  purple  fathomless  ocean.  As  I  stood  on  the  deck 
still  gazing  shoreward,  the  foam  of  the  waves  became  azure 
under  my  eyes,  whilst  delicately-coloured  flying-fish, 
denizens  of  two  elements,  skimmed  like  gigantic  sea-butter- 
flies over  the  surface  of  the  water,  flitting  to  and  fro  in  the 
uncontrolled  enjoyment  of  life  and  motion. 

That  night  the  native  passengers,  rolled  up  in  Tapa, 
their  heads  resting  on  hollow  wooden  pillows,  camped 
on  deck  ;  the  scent  of  the  coconut  oil  with  which  they 
anointed  their  sleek  smooth  bodies  was  quite  overpower- 
ing, especially  when  blended  with  the  fragrance  of  the 
cissies  (or  flower  girdles)  worn  around  their  waists,  and 
with  that  of  the  garlands  of  flowers  and  berries  hung  so 
lavishly  about  their  necks. 

A  tropic  night,  and  the  moon  at  the  full  !  The  pure 
white  radiance  threw  everything  into  strong  relief.  The 
natives  slept  at  intervals  and  danced  at  intervals,  crooning 
a  strange  weird  chant  to  the  accompaniment  of  much 
beating  of  hands. 

By  daylight  next  morning  we  anchored  in  the  road- 
stead of  Lefuka,  the  principal  island  in  the  Haapai  group. 


1 1 


A  long  low  shore,  a  foreground  of  white  sand,  a  fringe  of 
coconut  palms  with  thicker  vegetation  beyond,  brown 
thatched  roofs  of  native  houses,  and  white  ones  of 
Europeans  !  Such  was  Pangai  town  as  seen  from  the  deck 
of  our  steamer.  Seaward,  on  the  other  hand,  there  was 
the  already  familiar  line  of  coral  reef  and  a  score  of 
"  Summer  isles  of  Eden  lying  in  dark  purple  spheres  of  sea," 
The  whole  of  our  passengers,  just  six  in  number, 
landed  for  a  tour  of  inspection.  In  front  of  nearly  every 
native  house,  a  horse  was  hobbled,  but  in  spite  of  the 
abundance  of  green  pasturage  the  unfortunate  animals 
looked  half  starved,  and  their  thin  legs  were  so  weak  that 
I  wondered  how  they  could  do  any  work  at  all.  On 
quitting  the  town,  however,  we  left  the  houses  behind, 
and  strolled  away  into  the  bush,  where  we  again  had 
only  the  green  turf  under  our  feet,  and  again  saw  round 
us  an  absolutely  level  country.  Meanwhile,  huge 
fronds  of  coconut  palms  did  their  best  to  shield  us  from 
the  sun,  and  the  broad  leaves  of  the  banana  cast  cool 
shadows  across  our  path.  Before  we  had  gone  far,  the 
most  wonderful  lean,  lank,  long-legged,  reddish-brown 
pigs  went  scudding  across  our  track,  and  disappeared 
amongst  the  trees.  They  were  the  direct  descendants,  I 
was  told,  of  the  pigs  left  here  by   Captain   Cook.      It  did 


12 


not  take  us  more  than  an  hour  to  walk  right  across 
Lefuka,  until  we  reached  its  eastern  shore.  The  tide 
was  dead  low,  and  we  could  see  the  outlines  of  the  dry- 
coral  reefs,  which  connect  all  these  islands  as  with  a  chain. 
On  the  way,  one  of  our  party  related  how,  not  so  long  ago, 
the  coast  was  bodily  raised  twenty  feet  higher  by  an 
earthquake,  and  how  the  earthquake  was  followed  by  a 
great  tidal  wave.  A  halt  was  called,  and  while  we 
rested  on  the  coral  beach  and  ate  our  fill  of  "  mummy  " 
apples^ — one  of  our  company  amused  us  with  the  account 
of  a  wonderful  Haamunga  or  Trilithon  in  Tonga,  which, 
alas,  we  had  no  chance  of  visiting.  This  Trilithon, 
which  is  about  sixteen  miles  inland  from  Tongatabu, 
seems  to  afford  evidence  of  the  former  existence,  in 
Tonga,  of  an  ancient  civilisation,  that  of  some  bygone 
people  who,  in  common  with  the  Maories,  were  pos- 
sessed of  religious  instincts  far  in  advance  of  the  conquer- 
ing Polynesians,  who  succeeded  them.  It  consists  of  two 
enormous  upright  blocks  of  stone  with  a  massive  slab  on  the 
top,  the  latter  being  curiously  countersunk  into  the  two 
uprights.  The  whole  structure  is  strongly  reminiscent 
of  our  cromlechs   at  Stonehenge  and  elsewhere,  recalling 

*  Alore  correctly  mammy  apples — the  fruit  of  the  "  paw-paw  "  tree. 


the  theory  of  a  universal  sun  worship.  We  talked  this 
subject  out  as  we  sat,  under  the  shade  of  the  palms,  on 
the  sun-warmed  beach,  then  we  returned  to  the  landing 
stage  by  another  route. 

On  these  low-lying  islands  the  coconut  palms  thrive 
well  and  bear  abundantly,  for  there  is  nothing  to  impede 
the  passage  of  the  strong  salt  breeze  right  across  the  level 
surface  of  the  Haapaian  group,  and  without  this  strong 
salt  air  the  coconut  cannot  thrive. 

From  Lefuka  we  steamed  to  Vavau,  but  as  our  arrival  in 
Vavau  marks  the  second  stage  in  my  pilgrimage,  I  will 
reserve  it  for  a  fresh  chapter.  Henceforth,  we  were  to  be 
confronted  by  an  entirely  new  type  of  landscape  ;  the 
reign  of  the  level  surface  was  ended. 


M 


I 


CHAPTER    II 

"The  coral  waxes,  the  palm  grows,  but  man  departs." 

From  an  old  Tahitian  proverb. 

WE  entered  the  land-locked  harbour  of  Vavau  in  all 
the  glory  of  a  moon  scarcely  past  the  full. 
And  what  a  contrast  to  the  islands  from  which  we  had  just 
parted  !  On  every  side  of  us  towered  mountains,  broken, 
rugged,  height  upon  height,  peak  above  peak.  In  every 
crevice  of  the  mountain  the  forest  harboured,  and  every- 
where flourished  the  feathery  palm,  that  Girafl^e  of  Vege- 
tables, as  Stevenson  so  humorously  describes  it,  nestling, 
crowding,  climbing  to  the  summit. 

It  was  midnight  before  we  anchored  alongside  the 
jetty.  The  morning  light  showed  us  all  the  varied  beauty 
of  the  port  of  Neiaufu.     In  place  of  the  level  shores,  rising 

15 


only  a  few  feet  above  high-water  mark,  bold  and  rugged 
headlands  jutted  seawards,  and  every  islet  in  the  Archi- 
pelago was  clear  and  definite.  Let  Stevenson,  however, 
here  speak  in  person,  for  though  he  is  not  dealing  with 
this  particular  island,  yet  his  description  might  have  been 
written  for  it.  "  The  land  heaved  up  in  peaks  and  rising 
vales  ;  it  fell  in  cliffs  and  buttresses  ;  its  colour  ran  through 
fifty  modulations  in  a  scale  of  pearl,  rose  and  olive  ;  and  it 
was  crowned  above  by  opalescent  clouds.  The  suffusion 
of  vague  hues  deceived  the  eye  ;  the  shadows  of  clouds 
were  confounded  with  the  articulations  of  the  mountain, 
and  the  isle  and  its  unsubstantial  canopy  rose  and  shimmered 
before  us  like  a  single  mass." 

Wooded  hills,  which  spring  from  the  water's  edge, 
surround  what  seems  to  be  a  beautiful  lagoon,  some  four 
miles  long  and  two  wide.  At  the  eastern  end  there  is  a 
very  narrow  boat-passage.  Our  entrance  was  effected  by 
the  western  passage,  which  is  also  narrow  but  has  deep 
water  at  the  point.  On  either  side  were  white  signal 
beacons,  such  as  I  have  seen  at  the  mouth  of  the  Bris- 
bane. The  great  wharf  to  which  we  were  moored  was 
approached  by  a  road  of  coral,  white  to  the  point  of 
dazzlement  in  the  tropic  sunshine.  The  foreshore  was 
being  reclaimed  by  prison  labour  ;   the  prisoners,  men  as 

i6 


well  as  women,  looked  sleek  and  well  favoured,  they 
chanted  songs  as  they  worked,  and  showed  no  signs  about 
them  whatever  of  ill-usage  or  over-strain. 

There  is  no  beach  at  Vavau.  On  the  sloping  banks, 
which  are  green  to  the  water's  edge,  thatched  houses 
peep  through  the  orange-trees  ;  indeed  the  whole  island 
seems  one  delightful  orange  grove,  the  sward  was  every- 
where littered  with  the  freshly  fallen  fruit,  the  air  was 
fragrant  with  the  subtle  essence  of  blossom  and  fruit  com- 
bined. With  the  exception  of  the  coral  road  leading 
to  the  jetty,  all  the  paths  at  Nieaufu  (as  at  Nukualofa) 
are  simply  long  stretches  of  green  sward,  overspread  with 
orange-trees.  We  climbed  a  steep  hill,  and  while  we 
rested  on  the  top,  feasted  our  eyes  upon  a  sight  which  was 
one  to  dream  of  Everywhere  little  cone-shaped  islands 
outlined  with  big-fronded  palms,  everywhere  that  won- 
derful violet  sea,  and  between  the  golden  gleam  of  the 
oranges  we  saw  the  deep  blue  of  the  sky.  It  was  an 
ecstasy  in  colour,  a  vision  rather  than  a  prospect.  From 
henceforth  my  standard  of  the  beautiful  was  lifted  to  a 
higher  plane,  and  the  words  "  The  eye  hath  not  seen, 
neither  hath  it  entered  into  the  heart  of  man  to  conceive," 
had,  for  me,  acquired  a  deeper  and  intenser  significance. 

On  the  way  back  we  encountered  a  French   Catholic 

s.s.  17  c 


priest,  and  after  a  little  chat  the  old  man  took  us  to  his 
house  and  initiated  us  into  the  mysteries  of  Kava  drinking. 
Stevenson  tells  us  so  much  about  Kava  and  Kava  feasts, 
that  I  make  no  apology  for  describing  the  process.  The 
priest's  room  was  very  plainly  furnished,  in  the  centre 
was  the  bowl  carved  out  of  a  solid  block  of  wood  and 
standing  on  four  legs.  That  it  had  been  long  in  use  was 
evident  from  the  fine  opalescent  enamelling  of  the  inside. 
Beside  it  were  the  Kava  stones. 

Two  native  girls  appeared  bearing  the  Kava — the  root 
of  the  Piper  Methysticum,  about  which  in  its  raw  state  there 
was  nothing  at  all  distinctive.  Pieces  of  the  Kava 
were  torn,  or  bitten  off,  pounded  between  the  two  stones 
and  cast  into  the  bowl.  Then  while  one  of  the  girls 
brought  water  and  poured  it  upon  the  pounded  root, 
the  other,  with  shapely  brown  arms  bare  to  the  shoulder, 
kneaded  the  mass,  until  the  whole  virtue  of  the  Kava  was 
expressed  into  the  water. 

Not  until  the  bowl  was  half  full  of  a  frothy,  muddy 
mixture  did  the  straining  process  begin.  A  lump  of 
fibre,  made  from  the  bark  of  the  yellow  hibiscus,  was  cast 
into  the  Kava,  and  the  girls  with  arms  dipped  in  the 
mixture  up  to  the  elbow,  proceeded  to  take  up  the  liquor 
with  this  improvised  sponge,  wring  it  over  the  bowl  till 

i8 


it  was  dry,  and  fill  it  again,  repeating  this  process  until  the 
fibre  had  absorbed  all  the  gritty  particles. 

The  Kava  was  now  ready  for  drinking,  and  with  great 
ceremony  one  of  the  girls  filled  a  half  coconut  shell  with 
the  liquor  and  handed  it  to  one  of  our  number,  who,  as  the 
custom  is,  drained  it  without  drawing  a  breath,  and  then 
sent  the  empty  cup  spinning  like  a  tee-to-tum  across  the 
floor  to  the  girls. 

My  turn  came  soon  and  I  never  saw  a  more  uninviting 
looking  drink,  nevertheless  I  boldly  followed  the  example 
set  me  and  emptied  the  shell.  The  bitter,  hot,  acrid  taste 
seemed  to  me  at  first  nauseating  to  the  last  degree 
— but  after !  To  appreciate  Kava  you  must  estimate 
it  from  the  standpoint  of  After.  My  mouth  felt  clean, 
cool,  wholesome,  and  invigorated  as  it  had  never  felt  before, 
and  never  will  again  until  by  good  chance  I  light  upon 
another  bowl  of  Kava. 

"Have  you  found  it  good?"  inquired  the  old  priest 
in  French.  My  "  Mais  oui.  Monsieur,  apres,"  raised  a 
general  laugh.  Nevertheless  the  opinion  was  unanimous 
that  it  is  only  in  the  "  Apres"  that  you  can  enjoy  Kava. 
To  define  a  sensation  is  difficult,  but  most  of  us  are  familiar 
with  the  effect  of  the  external  application  of  menthol. 
Transfer  that  effect  to  an  internal  sensation  (on  a  very  hot 


19 


day),  and  you  will  then  know  something  of  the  delights  of 
Kava  drinking. 

That  afternoon  we  hired  a  sailing-boat  and  paid  a  visit 
to  a  cave  some  four  miles  down  the  harbour.  The  entrance 
looked  impossible  for  so  large  a  boat  as  ours,  but  our  native 
boatman  hauled  down  the  sail  and  assured  us  that  it  was 
all  right.  Like  Brer  Rabbit,  we  "lay  low,"  and  when  we 
lifted  ourselves  up  we  were  inside. 

Wonderful,  dreamlike,  unreal,  impossible  :  that  was  the 
general  verdict.  Like  giant  icicles  that  had  never  felt  the 
touch  of  frost  the  huge,  green,  semi-transparent  and  sharply 
pointed  stalactites  clustered  about  the  entrance.  From 
floor  to  vaulted  roof  rose  buttressed  columns  dividing  the 
cave  into  shadowy  alcoves,  and  as  for  size — you  could  put 
the  Blue  Grotto  at  Capri  into  one  of  those  alcoves.  The 
lofty  arched  roof  was  fretted  like  that  of  a  cathedral,  but 
it  was  the  light,  not  the  vast  outlines,  that  arrested  me, 
and  held  me  spellbound — the  weird  effect  of  the  sunshine 
without  reflected  through  the  medium  of  this  dim  water 
world. 

I  can  describe  what  I  saw,  but  I  cannot  hope  to  convey 
any  idea  of  the  sensation  produced  by  the  eye-v/itness. 
Gliding  to  and  fro  in  sinuous  coils  were  long  striped 
water-snakes,  blue  and  black,  pink   and   black,  green  and 

20 


black.      Did   Matthew    Arnold    dream  of  such   a    cavern 
when  he  wrote  : 

"  When  the  sea  snakes  coil  and  turn, 
Dry  their  mail,  and  bask  in  the  brine  "  ? 

Our  boatman  caught  two  of  the  sheeny,  harmless 
creatures,  and  after  hooding  them  we  carried  them  back 
to  the  steamer,  but  pity  proved  stronger  than  the  lust  of 
possession  and  we  gave  them  their  liberty.  I  can  see 
them  now  (as  one  after  the  other  I  threw  them  over  the 
side)  making  directly  for  the  cave.  Did  they  reach  it  ? 
Who  shall  say? 

Glued  to  the  fretted  roof  were  the  nests  of  innumer- 
able swallows,  and  in  the  dim  innermost  recesses  queer  bat- 
like creatures  hung  suspended  by  their  claws.  An  eerie 
feeling  possessed  us,  a  sudden  silence  reigned,  the  impossible 
seemed  possible  here,  the  real  unreal.  One  of  our  native 
boatmen  struck  the  rock  with  the  butt-end  of  an  oar — it 
gave  back  a  strange,  reverberant,  hollow  sound,  then  from 
the  darkness  within  came  a  weird,  mocking  echo. 

With  the  help  of  a  rope,  furnished  by  our  helmsman, 
I  climbed  a  sort  of  natural  stairway,  and  crouching  on 
an  overhanging  ledge,  looked  down.  The  peculiar 
malachite  green  of  the    water   now   seemed    intensified    a 

21 


hundred -fold,  and  the  boat,  its  occupants,  even  the 
coral  garden  below,  became  green  under  my  eyes.  The 
cave  was  as  cold  as  winter  inside,  in  spite  of  the  trop- 
ical heat  without — cold  and  yet  airless,  as  if  the  spell 
of  an  enchantment  held  the  place  in  thrall.  One  and  all 
we  were  glad  to  back  out  of  it,  re-hoist  the  sail,  and  return 
to  our  floating  home. 

Not  far  from  this  cave  was  a  barren  rock,  standing  out 

above  the  sea,  stark  and  sheer,  a  veritable  All-Alone-Stone, 

only  that  there  was  no  Madam  Gairfowl  perched  thereon. 

Below  this  rock  is  a  submarine  cavern,  only  to  be  reached 

by  diving.      Here,  so  the  legend  goes,   an  island  chief  once 

held  a  beautiful  maiden  in  thrall,  until  he  won  her  to   his 

will.      He  had  stolen  her  from   her  tribe  and  here  he  hid 

her.      In   this  same  cavern,   too,  in    more    recent   years,  a 

maiden  of  Vavau  saved  the  life  of  her  wounded  lover  by 

nursing  him  secretly  during  the  course  of  a  tribal  feud.      For 

the  details  of  these  pretty   stories,   however,   I  must   refer 

my  readers  to   Mariner's  "  Tonga."      I  was  further   told 

that  the  captain   of   a  British    man-of-war    once  had  the 

hardihood  to  dive  in  search  of  the  entrance  of  this  cave, 

and  that  he  found  it  to  be  all  that  it  was  described,  but  that 

in  returning  to  the  surface  he  grazed  his  back  against  the 

coral,  and  died  a  few  days  later  of  acute  blood  poisoning. 

22 


At  sunset  we  heaved  the  anchor  and  steamed  for  Apia. 
Our  course  was  still  in  a  north-easterly  direction  and  so 
continued  for  three  hundred  and  forty-five  miles,  when  we 
attained  the  Samoan  or  Navigator  group.  This  last  name 
was  given  by  their  discoverer,  Bougainville,  who  christened 
them  thus  out  of  compliment  to  the  dexterity  of  the  natives, 
whom  he  found  sailing  their  canoes  far  out  at  sea. 

The  group  consists  of  ten  inhabited  islands,  of  which 
the  principal  are  Savaai,  Upolu,  Tutuila,  Manu'a  Olosenga, 
Ofu,  Manono,  and  Apolima.  Upolu  —  Stevenson's 
Island — although  not  the  largest,  is  by  far  the  most 
important.  It  is  forty  miles  long  and  ten  broad.  We 
passed  along  the  eastern  end,  coasting  along  two  lovely 
rocky  islets  covered  with  vegetation  of  the  most  varied 
green. 

The  capital  ofUpoli  is  Apia,  and  this  town  gives  its 
name  to  the  bay. 

The  Bay  of  Apia  is  crescent-shaped,  having  the  point 
of  Mulinuu  for  the  western,  and  the  point  of  Matatu  for 
the  eastern,  tip  of  the  horn.  Although  the  coral  reef 
stretches  from  tip  to  tip,  there  is,  in  the  very  middle,  a 
natural  gap  in  the  submarine  coral  wall,  deep  enough  and 
broad  enough  to  give  passage  even  to  a  man-of-war. 

We  cast  anchor  at  daylight,  and  as  I  looked  over  the 

23 


side  of  the  steamer  a  sense  of  familiarity  pervaded  the 
landscape,  possibly  to  be  accounted  for  by  the  fact  that 
the  slender,  feathery  palms  had  ceased  to  be  distinctive 
features  ;  not  that  palms  were  lacking,  but  that  their  long, 
straight  stems  were  crowded  out  by  a  dense  growth  of 
other  trees.  In  one  of  his  letters  Stevenson  himself 
comments  on  this,  and  implies  that  this  "  home  likeness  " 
formed  one  of  the  attractions  Vv^hich  drew  him  to  Upolu. 

The  little  town  of  Apia  nestles  at  the  foot  of  a  peaked 
and  forest-clad  mountain  ;  indeed  the  whole  of  the  shore, 
which  is  everywhere  green  and  level,  is  overshadowed  by 
inland  mountain  tops. 

At  last  I  had  attained  the  goal  of  my  pilgrimage  ;  at 
last  I  was  within  hail  of  that  lonely  plateau,  where  all 
that  was  mortal  of  Robert  Louis  Stevenson  was  laid  to  rest 
some  eight  years  ago. 

I  looked  shoreward  with  eyes  full  of  reverence  and 
wonder.  This  island  with  its  wooded  peak  was  the 
"  surfy  palm-built  bubble  "  of  Gosse's  wonderful  poem. 
The  rhythm  of  the  words  made  music  in  my  brain. 

"  Now  the  skies  are  pure  above  you,  Tusitala, 
Feathered  trees  bow  down  before  you, 
Perfumed  winds  from  shining  waters 

24 


Stir  the  sanguine-leaved  hibiscus, 

That  your  kingdom's  dusk-eyed  daughters 

Weave  about  their  shining  tresses, 

Dew-fed  guavas  drop  their  viscous 

Honey  at  the  sun's  caresses, 

Where  eternal  summer  blesses 

Your  ethereal  musky  highlands." 

"  You  are  circled,  as  by  magic, 

In  a  surfy  palm-built  bubble,  Tusitala. 

Fate  hath  chosen,  but  the  choice  is 

Half  delectable,  half  tragic, 

For  we  hear  you  speak  like  Moses, 

And  we  greet  you  back  enchanted. 

But  reply's  no  sooner  granted 

Than  the  rifted  cloud-land  closes." 

This  poem,  which  forms  the  dedication  to  Russet  and 
Silver,  was  received  by  Stevenson  only  a  few  days  before 
his  death.  The  fact  that  he  had  barely  read  it  ere  the 
"  rifted  cloud-land  "  did  indeed  close  upon  him  imparts  an 
almost  prophetic  significance  to  the  last  two  lines. 


25 


CHAPTER  III 

"  Alas  !  for  Tusitala  he  sleeps  in  the  forest." 

Native  Lament. 

T  TAILIMA  is  only  about  three  miles  from  Apia,  but  the 
^  road  ascends  the  whole  way,  and  in  this  land 
"  where  it  is  always  afternoon "  one  does  not  care  for 
much  exertion  ;  so  a  carriage  was  engaged  to  drive  us 
thither,  and  we  had  John  Chinaman  for  coachman. 

That  morning  the  captain  and  a  fellow-passenger  had 
urged  us  not  to  attempt  the  ascent  of  Mount  Veea.  "Go 
and  see  the  house  by  all  means,  but  the  grave  is  impossible 
for  ladies."  Only  last  trip,"  said  the  captain,  "  two  of  our 
passengers,  both  comparatively  young  men,  got  lost  in  the 
bush  on  Mount  Veea,  never  found  the  grave  at  all,  and 
returned  to  the  Manipouri  dead  beat,  after  keeping  me 
waiting  four  hours.      But  I  give  you  due  warning,  ladies, 

26 


i 


\ 


I  shall  not  wait  for  you,  don't  think  it  for  a  moment.  I 
shall  just  go  off  and  leave  you  here."  I  can  recall  now  the 
twinkle  in  his  brown  eyes  as  the  captain  spoke,  a  twinkle 
that  gave  the  lie  to  his  words.  Nevertheless,  in  spite  of 
all  warnings,  we,  the  only  three  ladies  on  board,  adhered 
to  our  intention  of  making  the  ascent,  though  we  promised 
to  take  a  native  guide  to  show  us  the  way. 

We  drove  up  a  long,  winding  hill,  in  a  very  dilapi- 
dated wagonette.  I  sat  by  the  driver,  and  felt  sorry  for 
our  pair  of  lean  and  scraggy  horses  as  they  toiled  painfully 
upwards.  The  heat  was  stifling,  and  the  still,  tense 
air  vibrated  with  every  sound,  like  a  tightly  drawn  string. 
At  last  we  reached  the  Road  of  the  Loving  Heart.  This 
road  exists  as  a  touching  memorial  to  the  high  regard  in 
which  Tusitala — the  story  teller — was  held  by  the  natives. 
And  here  it  may  be  well  to  add  that  the  name  of  Tusitala 
was  given  to  Stevenson,  not  because  the  Samoans  knew  or 
loved  his  books,  but  because  it  is  their  custom  to  define  the 
individual  either  by  his  or  her  profession,  by  some  trait  or 
characteristic,  or  even  by  an  article  of  attire.  Hence 
when  the  chiefs  inquired  concerning  this  new  arrival, 
"  What  does  he  do  ?  How  does  he  live  ? "  they  were 
told  "  He  writes  books  ;  he  tells  stories  "  ;  and  from  that 
day  onward  he  was  "Tusitala,  the  Story  Teller,"  just  as 

27 


Mrs.  Strong  was  (I  believe)  known  as  "  The  Flower- 
Giver  "  (I  forget  the  native  equivalent),  because  she  was 
in  the  habit  of  giving  flowers  to  her  visitors. 

This  information  came  from  Captain  Crawshaw,  who 
was  himself  a  personal  friend  of  the  late  novelist,  and  showed 
me,  by  the  way,  quite  a  number  of  letters  he  had  received 
from  Stevenson  himself  One  of  them  interested  me  par- 
ticularly, since  in  it  Stevenson  begged  the  captain  to  try 
and  discover  the  whereabouts  of  a  friend  of  his  who  had 
got  into  trouble.  "  Save  him  from  his  worst  enemy — 
himself.  Bring  him  to  me.  Spare  no  expense  in  the 
matter.  I  will  be  answerable."  Such  was  the  substance 
of  this  letter  as  far  as  I  can  recall  it,  and  it  ended  in  the 
following  characteristic  fashion  : — "  Signed,  sealed,  and 
delivered  in  the  presence  of  my  Maker,  and  the  ink-pot." 

"  Robert  Louis  Stevenson." 

But  I  am  wandering  into  bye-ways,  and  I  must  hasten 
to  return  to  Ala  Loto  Alofa  (which  is  the  Samoan  equiva- 
lent for  the  name  of  the  road  referred  to).^  Without 
going  into  the  political  details  the  facts  are,  briefly,  that 
Stevenson  had  been  very  good  to  the  six  imprisoned  chiefs 
of  Mataafa's  following,  and  when  their  term  of  imprison- 

*   If  the  reader  wishes  to  understand  the  political  history  of  Samoa  let 
iiim  read,  mark,  learn,  and  inwardly  digest  Stevenson's  "  Footnote  to  History." 

28 


ment  expired,  these  men,  out  of  gratitude,  cut  a  road 
through  the  bush  to  VaiHma. 

This  work  was  a  labour  of  love,  the  men  who  engaged 
in  it  were  mostly  of  a  high  class,  and  they  would  neither 
take  wages  nor  any  sort  of  payment  in  kind.  How  this 
pleased  Stevenson  may  be  gathered  from  the  following  : — 
"  Now  whether  or  not  this  impulse  will  last  them  through 
the  road  does  not  matter  to  me  one  hair.  It  is  the  fact 
that  they  have  attempted  it,  that  they  have  volunteered, 
and  are  now  trying  to  execute,  a  thing  that  was  never  before 
heard  of  in  Samoa.  Think  of  it  !  It  is  road  making,  the 
most  fruitful  cause,  after  taxes,  of  all  rebellion  in  Samoa,  a 
thing  to  which  they  could  not  be  wiled  with  money,  nor 
driven  by  punishment.  It  does  give  me  a  sense  of  having 
done  something  in  Samoa  after  all."  ^ 

Stevenson  had  purposed  putting  up  a  notice  of  the 
new  road,  with  its  name  in  large  letters  with  a  few  words 
of  thanks  for  the  chiefs,  and  a  board  was  prepared  for  the 
purpose,  painted  and  spaced  for  the  lettering,  when  the 
chiefs  arrived  with  their  own  inscription  carefully  written 
out.  They  begged  so  earnestly  to  have  this  printed  in- 
stead that  their  wish  was  gratified.  I  was  privileged  to 
read  the  notice  at  the  corner  of  the  wide  road  leading  to 

^  September,  1894,  Failima  Letters. 
29 


the  gates  of  Vailima.^  The  inscription  is  in  Samoan,  but 
translated  into  English  runs  as  follows  :  "  The  Road  of 
the  Loving  Heart  "  (Ala  Loto  Alofa),  "  Remembering  the 
great  care  of  his  Highness  Tusitala,  and  his  loving  care 
v^^hen  we  were  in  prison  and  sore  distressed,  we  have 
prepared  him  an  enduring  present,  this  road  which  we 
have  dug  to  last  for  ever.  It  shall  never  be  muddy,  it 
shall  endure,  this  road  that  we  have  dug." 

On  arrival  at  the  finger-post  our  Chinaman  was  fain 
to  be  rid  of  us,  so  he  announced,  with  a  grin  on  his  yellow 
face,  "  Horsee  too  muchee  tired,  missie  walk  now,  missie 
catchee  Vailima  chop-chop."  We  had,  however,  been 
forewarned  what  to  expect  by  the  captain,  so  I  merely 
remarked,  "  Savey,  John  no  catchee  Vailima,  no  catchee 
pay."     And  John  drove  on  ! 

The  Road  of  the  Loving  Heart,  if  very  steep,  has  a 
fairly  level  surface.  On  either  side  are  palms,  bread  fruit 
trees  and  bananas.  Vailima  (literally,  "  Five  Rivers  ")  is 
approached  by  a  short  drive,  through  a  gate,  into  a  lovely 
garden.  Mrs.  Strong  tells  me  that  the  present  owner  has 
painted  on  that  gate  the  words — "  Villa  Vailima."  I  am 
happy  to  say,  however,  that  neither  of  us  observed  this 
atrocity. 

^  I  am  told  this  finger-post  is  now  a  thing  of  the  past. 

30 


The  house  itself  is  well  designed  and  has  a  double 
verandah  ;  it  is  built  of  wood  throughout,  and  stands  on  very 
high  ground.  On  the  left  hand,  as  we  faced  the  house,  was 
the  smaller  villa  once  occupied  by  Mrs.  Strong.  On  the  right, 
towering  up  into  the  blue  dome  above,  was  Mount  Veea, 
and  on  the  wooded  height  (far  beyond  ken) — the  grave. 

Not  a  soul  was  visible,  the  place  was  bathed  in  sun- 
shine and  "  steeped  in  silentness,"  not  even  a  dog  barked  at 
our  approach.  The  crotons,  dracaenas,  and  other  plants 
of  brilliant  foliage  made  patches  of  vivid  colour  on  the 
well-kept  lawns,  and  everywhere  was  the  scent  of  orange 
blossom,  gardenia,  and  frangipani. 

Under  the  shadow  of  the  broad  verandah  the  air  was 
cool  and  pleasant,  and  we  three  lingered  there  awhile,  as 
on  the  threshold  of  a  temple.  Before  us  was  the  really 
magnificent  hall,  some  sixty  feet  long  by  forty  wide,  the 
door  standing  open,  as  in  the  days  of  Tusitala,  but  the 
dark  panelling  within  was  a  thing  of  the  past,  and  the 
walls  were  now  painted  a  soft  cool  green. 

All  his  furniture  was  gone — we  were  prepared  for 
that — but  the  window  was  there,  the  window  below 
which  he  lay  on  the  low  settle  and  breathed  his  last.  As 
I  stood  there  the  whole  scene  flashed  across  my  mental 
vision,  with  its  awful,  and  perhaps  merciful,  unexpectedness. 

31 


He  had  recorded,  often  enough,  his  desire  for  such 
an  end.  *'  I  wish  to  die  in  my  boots,  no  more  Land  of 
Counterpane  for  me  !  If  only  I  could  secure  a  violent 
end,  what  a  fine  success !  To  be  drowned,  to  be  shot,  to 
be  thrown  from  a  horse,  aye,  to  be  hanged,  rather  than 
pass  again  through   that  slow  dissolution." 

No  less  has  he  left  on  record  his  attitude  towards 
impending  death.  "  By  all  means  begin  your  folio,  even  if 
the  doctor  does  not  give  you  a  year,  even  if  he  hesitates 
about  a  month,  make  one  brave  push  and  see  what  can  be 
accomplished  in  a  week.  It  is  not  only  in  finished  under- 
takings that  we  ought  to  honour  useful  labour.  A  spirit 
goes  out  of  the  man  who  means  execution  which  outlives 
the  most  untimely  end." 

The  hall  of  Vailima  is  (as  Mr.  Balfour  tells  us) 
quite  the  feature  of  the  house.  I  have  before  referred 
to  its  size,  it  covers  the  whole  area  of  the  building. 
Facing  us,  as  we  entered,  was  the  broad  polished 
wooden  staircase  leading  to  the  upper  storey.  We  passed 
through  the  hall  and  out  of  a  door  on  the  other  side  of 
it  ;  somewhere  in  the  back  premises  we  unearthed  a 
Samoan  woman,  attired  in  very  scanty  raiment,  busily 
engaged  in  peeling  potatoes.  To  her  we  addressed  our- 
selves, first  in   English    and  then  in   German,  but  it  was 

32 


all  to  no  purpose.  Next  we  resorted  to  signs.  Pointing 
to  the  mountain  top,  I  said,  "Tusitala."  The  word 
acted  as  a  talisman,  the  brown  face  wreathed  itself  in 
smiles,  the  dark  eyes  kindled  into  comprehension.  Motion- 
ing to  us  to  remain  where  we  were,  she  disappeared,  and 
soon  returned  with  a  small  brown  girl,  whose  only  garment 
was  a  ragged   blue  pinafore  sewn   up  at  the  back. 

The  little  maiden  (she  might  have  been  ten  or  eleven 
years  of  age)  ran  up  to  us  quite  gleefully,  intimated  by 
smiles  and  gestures  that  she  was  prepared  to  act  as  guide, 
and  at  once  possessed  herself  of  our  heavy  basket  of  fruit. 
We  followed  her  through  a  little  wicket  gate  which  led 
into  a  lovely  grove  with  oranges  on  one  side  and  bananas 
on  the  other,  the  leaves  of  the  latter  being  larger  and  more 
glossy  than  any  I  have  seen  before  or  since.  The  play  of 
light  and  shadow  here  was  something  to  dream  of,  and 
often  we  stood  still  too  enraptured  to  pursue  our  way. 
Soon  we  crossed  a  little  mountain  stream,  clear  as  crystal, 
with  but  a  single  plank  for  bridge,  and  lingered  awhile  to 
admire  the  cream-breasted  kingfishers  and  the  numerous 
little^  crayfish  disporting  themselves  in  and  above  the  water. 
In  time  we  left  the  cultivated  land  behind  and  followed  a 

*  Since  reading  Mr.   Balfour's    Life   of  Stevenson^  I   am    led   to  infer 
these  last  were  a  sort  uf  fresh-water  prawns. 

s.s.  33  D 


slender  path  into  the  bush,  where  under  toot  was  a  dense 
growth  of  sensitive  plant  with  delicately  cut  foliage  and 
little  fluffy  pink  ball-like  blossoms.  Our  footsteps  were 
marked  by  the  quivering  and  shrinking  of  the  shy,  tremu- 
lous leaves,  but  as  I  looked  back  they  once  more  stood 
bravely  erect.  This  was  the  plant  that  baffled  all  poor 
Stevenson's  efforts  at  eradication,  living,  thriving,  ever 
renewing  itself  in  spite  of  him. 

"  A  fool,"  says  he,  "  brought  it  to  this  island  in  a  pot, 
and  used  to  lecture  and  sentimentalize  over  the  tender 
thing.  The  tender  thing  has  now  taken  charge  of  this 
island,  and  men  fight  it,  with  torn  hands,  for  bread  and 
life.  A  singular  insidious  thing,  shrinking  and  biting  like 
a  weasel,  clutching  by  its  roots  as  a  limpet  clutches  to  a 
rock."^ 

The  trees  here  were  simply  magnificent,  the  fern  life  too 
was  everywhere  abundant,  exquisite  ferns,  such  as  we  grow 
in  our  hot-houses  at  home.  Trees,  ferns,  creepers,  flowers 
were  tangled  together  in  a  vast  net-work  of  luxuriant 
vegetation,  each  individual  plant  fighting  for  its  very  exist- 
ence, contending  for  its  due  share  of  light,  and  air,  and 
space.  Here  it  was  that  Stevenson  conceived  his  poem  of 
"  The  Woodman  "  ;  every  word  of  it  came  home  to  me  with 

^   Vailima   Letters^    November,    1890. 

34 


the  inevitableness  of  absolute  truth  as  we  fought  our  way- 
upward  and  onward. 

"  I  saw  the  wood  for  what  it  was, 
The  lost  and  the  victorious  cause, 
The  deadly  battle  pitched  in  line. 
Saw  silent  weapons  cross  and  shine, 
Silent  defeat,  silent  assault, 
A  battle  and  a  burial  vault." 

Stevenson's  attitude  towards  nature  was  a  very  remark- 
able one.  Like  Wordsworth,  he  endued  her  with  a  real,- 
living  personality,  but  unlike  Wordsworth,  he  never  seems 
to  enter  into  a  direct  communion  with  her.  She  does  not 
soothe  him  into  "  a  wise  passiveness,"  she  rather  inspires 
him  with  a  strange,  fierce  energy.  Take  this  passage, 
selected  almost  at  random  from  one  of  his  published  letters 
to  Sidney  Colvin  :  "I  wonder  if  any  one  ever  had  the  same 
attitude  to  nature  as  I  hold  and  have  held  for  so  long. 
"  This  business  (of  weeding)  fascinates  me  like  a  tune 
or  a  passion,  yet  all  the  while  I  thrill  with  a  strong  distaste. 
The  horror  of  the  thing,  objective  and  subjective,  is  always 
present  in  my  mind,  the  horror  of  creeping  things,  a 
superstitious  horror  of  the  void  and  the  powers  about  me, 
the  horror  of  my  own  devastation  and  continual  murders. 


35 


The  life  of  the  plants  comes  through  my  finger  tips,  their 
struggles  go  to  my  heart  like  supplications,  I  feel  myself 
blood  boltered — then  I  look  back  on  my  cleared  grass,  and 
count  myself  an  ally  in  a  fair  quarrel,  and  make  stout  my 
heart." 

The  living  individual  personality  of  nature  is  here  as 
clearly  recognised  as  Wordsworth  himself  recognised  it,  but 
the  standpoint  of  regard  is  wholly  different.  Stevenson 
was  aware  of  the  spirit  that  clothed  itself  with  the  visible, 
but  he  was  no  dreamy  lover  enamoured  of  that  spirit. 
He  was  rather  (as  he  so  often  says)  the  ally  in  a  fair  quarrel, 
only  desirous  of  bending  Nature  to  his  will,  of  pitting  his 
strength  against  hers. 

But  I  am  digressing,  and  the  mountain  top  and  the 
grave  are  before  me,  and  I  am  in  the  forest  on  my  way 
thither.  Now  and  again  a  tiny  bright-coloured  bird  would 
flash  across  the  path,  now  and  again  a  huge  trail  of  giant  con- 
volvulus, blue  as  the  sky,  would  bar  our  progress.  Over 
an  hour  had  elapsed  before  we  gained  the  summit,  and  the 
latter  half  of  the  ascent  was  by  far  the  most  difficult. 

Small  wonder  that  sixty  natives  were  required  to  get 
the  coffin  up,  and  even  so  the  question  will  always  remain. 
How  did  they  accomplish  the  feat  ?  One  may  talk  of  the 
Road  of  the  Loving   Heart,  but  this  was  a  veritable  Via 

36 


Dolorosa,  a  road  of  Sorrow  and  of  Pity.  The  path  zigzagged 
through  the  forest  until  it  ended  in  a  slender,  fern-grown, 
almost  imperceptible  bush-track.  More  than  once  it  led 
over  the  face  of  the  solid  rock,  but  branches  of  creepers, 
by  which  it  was  easy  to  swing  oneself  up,  were  abundant, 
though  still  the  top  appeared  to  recede,  and  to  become  more 
and  more  unattainable. 

The  mosquitos  made  the  lives  of  my  two  companions 
a  burden  ;  on  all  sides  of  us  we  heard  their  sinister  aereal 
trumpeting,  the  heat  was  insupportable — stifling,  the  very  air 
seemed  stagnant  and  dead,  but,  quite  unawares,  we  were 
gradually  nearing  our  goal.  Suddenly  our  little  brown- 
skinned  guide,  who  was  travelling  ever  so  far  ahead,  in 
spite  of  the  burden  of  our  heavy  basket  of  fruit,  flung 
herself  down  on  a  small  plateau  just  above  us,  and  we,  toil- 
ing painfully  after,  knew  we  had  attained. 

A  minute  later  and  we  stood  in  reverent  silence  beside 
a  massive  sarcophagus,  constructed  of  concrete  and  sur- 
rounded by  a  broad  slab.  Not  an  ideal  structure  by  any 
manner  of  means,  not  even  beautiful,  and  yet  in  its  massive 
ruggedness  it  somehow  suited  the  man  and  the  place. 
The  broad  slab  was  strewn  with  faded  wreaths  and 
flowers,  and  on  one  side  of  the  sarcophagus  were  inscribed 
Stevenson's  name,  with    the  date  of  his  birth   and  death, 

37 


also   these    eight  lines,   famihar  to   all  who    have   read   his 

poems  : 

"  Under  the  wide  and  starry  sky, 

Dig  the  grave  and  let  me  lie, 
Glad  did  I  live  and  gladly  die. 
And  I  lay  me  down  with  a  will. 
This  be  the  verse  you  grave  for  me, 
Here  he  lies  where  he  longed  to  be. 
Home  is  the  sailor,  home  from  the  sea, 
And  the  hunter  home  from  the  hill." 
On   the    other  side    was   an    inscription   in    Samoan, 
which  translated  is   "  Whither  thou  goest  I  will   go,  and 
where  thou  lodgest  I  will  lodge  ;  thy  people  shall  be  my 
people  and  thy  God  my  God  ;   where  thou  diest  I  will  die, 
and  there  will  I  be  buried."     On  either  side  of  this  text 
was  graven  a  thistle  and  a  hibiscus  flower. 

The  chiefs  have  tabooed  the  use  of  firearms,  or  other 
weapons,  on  Mount  Veea,  in  order  that  the  birds  may  live 
there  undisturbed  and  unafraid,  and  build  their  nests  in  the 
trees  around  Tusitala's  grave. 

We  remained  on  the  plateau  for  over  an  hour  resting 
our  weary  limbs,  and  eating  our  lunch  of  fruit ;  and  during 
that  time  we  sat  on  the  broad  sun-warmed  slab.  A  tiny 
lizard,  with  a  golden  head,  a  green  body,  and  a  blue  tail, 

38 


To  fctce  page  39] 


VIEW    OF    VAILIMA    FROM    STEVENSON'S    GRAVE 


flickered  to  and  fro.  Overhead  a  huge  flying  fox,  with  out- 
spread "  batty  wings "  sailed  majestically.  We  seemed 
alone  in  the  world,  we  four  human  beings,  and  as  we  gazed 
about  us  we  saw  everywhere,  far  beneath  us,  the  beautiful 
"sapphire-spangled  marriage-ring  of  the  land,"  and  down 
from  us  to  the  blueness,  and  beyond  us,  to  an  infinitude  of 
distance,  billow  upon  billow  of  wooded  heights.  Sitting 
there,  on  that  green  and  level  plateau  on  the  summit  of  the 
mountain,  my  thoughts  turned  involuntarily  to  the  last  lofty 
resting-place  of  Browning's  "  Grammarian." 

"  Well,  here's  the  platiorm,  here's  the  proper  place  ! 
Hail  to  your  purlieus. 
All  ye  high  flyers  of  the  feathered  race. 
Swallows  and  curlews ! " 
"  Here,  here's  his  place,  where  meteors  shoot,  clouds  form. 
Lightnings  are  loosened. 
Stars  come  and  go  !   Let  joy  break  with  the  storm. 
Peace  let  the  dew  send  !  " 

The  wind  sighed  softly  in  the  branches  of  the  Tavau 
trees,  from  out  the  green  recesses  of  the  To/ came  the  plain- 
tive coo  of  the  wood-pigeon.  In  and  out  of  the  branches 
of  the  magnificent  Fau  tree,  which  overhangs  the  grave,  a 
kingfisher,  sea-blue,  iridescent,  flitted  to  and  fro,  whilst  a 

39 


scarlet  hibiscus,  in  full  flower,  showed  up  royally  against  the 
gray  lichened  cement.  All  around  was  light  and  life  and 
colour,  and  I  said  to  myself,  "He  is  made  one  with  nature"  ; 
he  is  now,  body  and  soul  and  spirit,  commingled  with 
the  loveliness  around.  He  who  lono^ed  in  life  to  scale  the 
height,  he  who  attained  his  wish  only  in  death,  has  become 
in  himself  a  parable  of  fulfilment.  No  need  now  for  that 
heart-sick  cry  : — 

"  Sing  me  a  song  of  a  lad  that  is  gone. 
Say,  could  that  lad  be  I." 

No  need  now  for  the  despairing  finality  of: — 

"  I  have  trod  the  upward  and  the  downward  slopes, 
I  have  endured  and  done  in  the  days  of  yore, 
I  have  longed  for  all,  and  bid  farewell  to  hope. 
And  I  have  lived,  and  loved,  and  closed  the  door." 

Death  has  set  his  seal  of  peace  on  the  unequal  conflict 
of  mind  and  matter  ;  the  All-Mother  has  gathered  him  to 
herself. 

In  years  to  come,  when  his  grave  is  perchance  for- 
gotten, a  rugged  ruin,  home  of  the  lizard  and  the  bat,  Tusi- 
tala — the  story  teller — "  the  man  with  a  heart  of  gold  "  (as  I 
so  often  heard  him  designated  in  the  Islands)  will  live,  when 
it  may  be  his  tales  have  ceased  to  interest,  in  the  tender 

40 


remembrance  of  those  whose  lives  he  beautified,  and  whose 
hearts  he  warmed  into  gratitude. 

So  we  left  him,  "still  loftier  than  the  world  suspects, 
living  and  dying,"  and  once  more,  following  the  footsteps 
of  our  guide,  we  took  up  that  ferny  moss-grown  track.  It 
was  scarcely  less  easy  to  scramble  down  the  steep  descent 
than  it  had  been  to  toil  upwards.  But  "  time  and  the  hour 
run  through  the  roughest  day,"  and  we  eventually  arrived 
at  the  bottom,  torn  and  scratched  and  not  a  little  weary, 
but  well  content,  only  somewhat  regretful  that  the  visit 
to  the  grave  was  over  and  not  still  to  come,  comforting 
each  other  with  the  recollection  that  the  house  yet  remained 
to  be  explored. 

Vailima  is  not  much  changed  since  the  days  when 
Robert  Louis  Stevenson  lived  there.  Where  the  walls  had 
been,  in  the  late  native  war,  riddled  with  shot,  they  had  been 
renewed,  but  so  exactly  on  the  old  lines  that  the  change 
was  scarcely  perceptible.  Although  the  house  has  been 
added  to,  and  in  my  estimation  considerably  improved 
thereby,  yet  the  old  part  remains  intact. 

Herr  Conrade,  the  manager  for  Herr  Kunz,  the  present 
owner,  was  kind  enough  to  show  us  everything,  but  natur- 
ally Stevenson's  suite  of  rooms  were  the  only  ones  that 
possessed   any   special   interest.      First  his  bedroom,   then 

41 


his  library,  and  lastly  his  Temple  of  Peace,  the  innermost 
shrine  where  he  wrote,  and  which,  opening  as  it  did  on  to  the 
upper  verandah,  commanded  a  magnificent  view  of  sea  and 
mountain.  From  the  verandah  could  be  seen  the  gleam  of 
the  sunlight  on  the  breaking  surf  around  the  far  distant 
bay.  On  the  left,  fronting  seaward,  were  the  heights  where 
he  was  laid  to  rest. 

Between  two  of  the  upper  rooms  (the  bedroom  and  the 
library),  there  used  to  be  a  square  hole,  just  large  enough 
for  a  man  to  crawl  through  on  hands  and  knees.^  This  was 
formerly  the  only  entrance,  but  the  present  owner  has  had 
a  door  put  up  on  which  the  outline  of  the  hole  is  still 
indicated. 

With  the  exception  of  these  rooms,  Vailima  might 
have  belonged  to  any   other  European  of  wealth  and  taste. 

The  question  has  been  raised.  Was  Stevenson  con- 
tented in  Samoa  .?  Did  those  three  years  bring  him  pleasure  ? 
May  we  not  answer.  Yes !  and  not  only  pleasure  but  profit. 
For  the  profit,  note  the  books  written  during  this  period, 
'The  Master  of  Baliantrae,  and  the  unfinished  IVeir  of 
Hermiston  ! 

*  I  have  since  I  wrote  this  been  informed  by  a  member  of  the  family 
that  although  the  hole  existed  it  was  not  between  the  library  and  the 
bedroom. 


42 


For  the  pleasure  he  shall  speak  for  himself,  and  mark  the 
subtle  distinction  he  draws  between  happiness  and  pleasure. 
"  I  was  only  happy  once — that  was  at  Hyeres,  it  came  to  an 
end  from  a  variety  of  reasons,  decline  of  health,  change  of 
place,  increase  of  money,  age  with  his  stealing  steps  ;  since 
then,  as  before  then,  I  know  not  what  it  means.  But  I 
know  pleasure  still,  pleasure  with  a  thousand  faces  and  none 
perfect,  a  thousand  tongues  all  broken,  a  thousand  hands 
and  all  of  them  with  scratching  nails.  High  among  these  I 
place  this  delight  of  weeding  out  here,  alone  by  the  garrulous 
water,  under  the  silence  of  the  high  wood,  broken  by  in- 
congruous sounds  of  birds." 

"  Intense  in  all  he  did,  Tusitala  could  do  nothing  by 
halves,"  said  a  man  who  knew  him  well.  "  Whether  it 
was  at  clearing  land  or  writing  books  he  always  worked  at 
the  top  of  his  power,  and  enjoying  as  he  did  the  life  of  the 
gay  house  party  in  the  evening,  he  would  rise  at  daylight  to 
make  up  his  loss  of  time."  His  was  the  old,  old  story  of 
the  sword  that  wore  out  the  scabbard — flesh  and  spirit  at 
issue,  and  the  flesh  so  frail,  so  unequal  to  the  conflict.  There 
was  an  Austrian  Count  in  Upolu  whom  the  captain  took 
us  one  day  to  see,  and  who,  to  use  the  colonial  word, 
"  batched"  in  a  little  bungalow  in  the  midst  of  a  huge 
coconut  plantation. 

43 


The  bungalow  contained  but  one  room — the  bedroom, 
and  the  broad  encircling  verandah  served  for  sitting  room. 
Here  we  sat  and  talked  about  Tusitala,  and  drank  to  his 
memory.  The  conversation  turned  on  Vailima,  and  our 
host  took  us  within  and  showed  jus  the  only  two  adornments 
that  his  room  possessed.  Over  his  camp  bed  hung  a 
framed  photograph  bearing  the  inscription  "  My  friend 
Tusitala,"  and  fronting  the  bed  was  another  of  the  house 
and  Mount  Veea. 

"  So,"  he  said,  "  I  keep  him  there,  for  he  was  my 
saviour,  and  I  wish  'good  night'  and  *  good  morning,' 
every  day,  both  to  himself  and  to  his  old  home."  The 
count  then  told  us  that  when  he  was  stopping  at  Vailima  he 
used  to  have  his  bath  daily  on  the  verandah  below  his  room. 
One  lovely  morning  he  got  up  very  early,  got  into  the  bath, 
and  splashed  and  sang,  feeling  very  well  and  very  happy, 
and  at  last  beginning  to  sing  very  loudly,  he  forgot  Mr. 
Stevenson  altogether.  All  at  once  there  was  Stevenson 
himself,  his  hair  all  ruffled  up,  his  eyes  full  of  anger. 
"  Man,"  he  said,  "  you  and  your  infernal  row  have  cost 
me  more  than  two  hundred  pounds  in  ideas,"  and  with  that 
he  was  gone,  but  he  did  not  address  the  count  again  the 
whole  of  that  day.  Next  morning  he  had  forgotten 
the  count's  offence  and  was  just  as  friendly   as  ever,  but 

44 


To  /ace  pa^e  44] 


NATIVE    FEAST    AT    VAILIMA 


— the  noise  was  never  repeated  !  Another  of  the  count's 
stories  amused  me  much.  "  An  English  lord  came 
all  the  way  to  Samoa  in  his  yacht  to  see  Mr.  Stevenson, 
and  found  him  in  his  cool  Kimino  sitting  with  the  ladies 
and  drinking  tea  on  his  verandah  ;  the  whole  party  had 
their  feet  bare.  The  English  lord  thought  that  he  must 
have  called  at  the  wrong  time,  and  offered  to  go  away,  but 
Mr.  Stevenson  called  out  to  him,  and  brought  him  back, 
and  made  him  stay  to  dinner.  They  all  went  away  to 
dress,  and  the  guest  was  left  sitting  alone  in  the  veran- 
dah. Soon  they  came  back,  Mr.  Osborne  and  Mr. 
Stevenson  wearing  the  form  of  dress  most  usual  in  that  hot 
climate,  a  white  mess  jacket,  and  white  trousers,  but  their 
feet  were  still  bare.  The  guest  put  up  his  eyeglass  and 
stared  for  a  bit,  then  he  looked  down  upon  his  own  beauti- 
fully shod  feet  and  sighed.  They  all  talked  and  laughed 
until  the  ladies  came  in,  the  ladies  in  silk  dresses,  befrilled 
with  lace,  but  still  with  bare  feet,  and  the  guest  took  a 
covert  look  through  his  eyeglass  and  gasped,  but  when  he 
noticed  that  there  were  gold  bangles  on  Mrs.  Strong's  ankles 
and  rings  upon  her  toes,  he  could  bear  no  more  and  dropped 
his  eyeglass  on  the  ground  of  the  verandah  breaking  it  all 
to  bits."  Such  was  my  informant's  story,  which  I  give  for 
what  it  is  worth. 


45 


On  our  way  back  to  the  steamer  we  visited  the  lovely 
waterfall  referred  to  in  Vailima  Letters^  also  the  Girls' 
School  for  the  daughters  of  Native  Chiefs.  The  latter 
affords  most  interesting  testimony  to  the  value  of  mission 
work.  The  principal  of  the  school — a  German  lady — told 
us  that  both  Stevenson  and  his  mother  took  the  deepest 
interest  in  this  school,  and  subscribed  liberally  towards  its 
support. 

We  had,  I  regret  to  say,  very  little  time  in  Apia,  and 
no  time  for  Papasea,  or  The  Sliding  Rock,  which  lies  some 
miles  inland.  The  natives  love  to  shoot  this  fall,  and  many 
of  the  white  folk  of  both  sexes  follow  their  example. 

Next  morning  we  were  off  again,  steaming  for  the 
other  side  of  the  island,  where  we  stayed  two  days 
shipping  copra.  Here  I  met  many  of  Stevenson's 
friends,  and  can  recall  a  chat  I  had  with  the  photo- 
grapher to  whom  I  am  indebted  for  several  of  the 
photographs  in  this  book.  He  was  a  thin  spare  man, 
about  six-and-twenty  years  of  age,  and  not  so  very 
unlike   the   pictures   of   Stevenson    himself. 

"  I  had  but  recently  come  to  Samoa,"  he  said,  "  and 
was  standing  one  day  in  my  shop  when  Mr.  Stevenson 
came  in  and  spoke.  "  Mon,"  he  said,  "  I  tak  ye  to  be 
a  Scotsman    like    mysel." 

46 


"  I  would  I  could  have  claimed  a  kinship,"  deplored 
the  photographer,  "  but  alas  !  I  am  English  to  the  back- 
bone, with  never  a  drop  of  Scotch  blood  in  my  veins, 
and  I  told  him  this,  regretting  the  absence  of  the  blood  tie. 

"  I  could  have  sworn  your  back  was  the  back  of 
a  Scotchman,"  was  his  comment,  "  but,"  and  he  held  out 
his  hand,  "  you  look  sick,  and  there  is  a  fellowship  in 
sickness  not  to  be  denied."  I  said  I  was  not  strong, 
and  had  come  to  the  Island  on  account  of  my  health. 
"  Well  then,"  replied  Mr.  Stevenson,  "  it  shall  be  my 
business  to  help  you  to  get  well  ;  come  to  Vailima  when- 
ever you  like,  and  if  I  am  out,  ask  for  refreshment,  and 
wait  until  I  come  in,  you  will  always  find  a  welcome  there." 

At  this  point  my  informant  turned  away,  and  there 
was  a  break  in  his  voice  as  he  exclaimed,  "  Ah,  the  years 
go  on,  and  I  don't  miss  him  less,  but  more  ;  next  to  my 
mother  he  was  the  best  friend  I  ever  had  :  a  man  with 
a  heart  of  gold ;   his  house  was  a  second  home  to  me." 

"  You  like  his  books,  of  course." 

"Yes!"  (this  very  dubiously),  "I  like  them,  but 
he  was  worth  all  his  books  put  together.  People  who 
don't  know  him,  like  him  for  his  books.  I  like  him 
for  himself,  and  I  often  wish  I  liked  his  books  better. 
It    strikes   me   that   we    in    the    Colonies   don't    think    so 


47 


much  of  them  us  you  do  in  England,  perhaps  we  are 
not  educated  up  to  his  style."  And  this  is  the  class 
of  comment  I  heard  over  and  over  again  in  the  Colonies, 
from  men  who  liked  the  man,  but  had  no  especial 
liking  for  his  books.  Is  it  that  Robert  Louis  Stevenson 
appeals  first  and  foremost  to  a  cultured  audience  ?  Surely 
not.  Putting  the  essays  out  of  court,  his  books  are 
one  and  all  tales  of  adventure,  stories  of  romance.  The 
interest  may  be  heightened  by  style — by  the  use  of 
words  that  fit  the  subject,  as  a  tailor-made  gown  fits 
its  wearer — but  the  subject  is  never  sacrificed  to  the 
style.  It  seems  to  me  that  one  of  my  friends  on 
the  Manipouri  (himself  a  great  reader  and  no  mean 
critic)  came  very  near  solving  the  problem  when  he 
said,  "  Frankly,  much  as  I  like  the  man,  I  don't  care 
one  straw  about  his  writings.  I've  got  on  board 
this  boat  T'he  Master  of  Ballantrae^  The  Black  Arrow^ 
Kidnapped^  and  The  Ebb  Tide.  They  all  read  like 
so  many  boys'  books,  and  when  I  became  a  man  I 
put  away  childish  things.  I've  plenty  of  adventure  and 
excitement  in  my  life,  and  I  want  a  book  that  tells 
me  about  the  home  life  in  the  old  country,  or  else  an 
historical  novel.  Give  me  Thomas  Hardy,  or  Mrs. 
Humphry  Ward,  or  Marion  Crawford,  or  Antony  Hope. 

48 


My  bad  taste,  I  daresay,  but  it  is  so,  and  I  am  not 
alone  in  my  verdict,  although  I  reckon  the  majority 
of  the  folk,  this  side  of  the  world,  would  prefer  Marie 
Corelli   or    Mrs.    L.    T.   Meade." 


I  cannot  leave  Samoa  without  saying  a  few  words 
about  the  natives,  in  whom  Tusitala  took  so  deep  an 
interest. 

As  I  write  there  rises  before  my  mental  vision  a 
crowd  of  brown-skinned  men,  women,  and  children,  their 
bodies  glistening  with  coconut  oil,  and  looking  as  sleek 
as  a  shoal  of  porpoises.  Supple  of  limb,  handsome  of 
feature,  the  men  are  mostly  possessed  of  reddish  or  yellow- 
tinted  hair,  which  stands  straight  out  from  their  heads 
in  a  stiff  mop.  The  colour  is  due  to  the  rubbing  in 
of  a  much  prized  description  of  red  clay,  and  the  stiffness 
to  their  constant  use  of  coral  lime,  for  purposes  of 
cleanliness. 

All  the  men  wear  the  kilt  of  the  South  Seas,  the 
sulu^  ridi^  or  lava-lava^  and  as  often  as  not  a  tunic 
besides.  Nearly  all  the  women  are  clothed  in  "  pina- 
fore "  dresses,  infinitely  graceful  and  becoming.  Men  and 
women  alike  adorn  themselves  with  flowers,  wreaths  of 
flowers    in   their  hair,   flowers  interwoven    in    their    sulus^ 

s.s.  49  E 


garlands  of  flowers  around  the  neck,  in   addition   to  count- 
less strings  of  shells  and  beads. 

That  they  loved  Tusitala  with  a  deep  and  lasting 
affection  is  undoubted,  and  if  proof  were  needed  this 
touching  little  story  may  be  taken  as  but  one  of  many 
evidences.  Sosimo,  one  of  his  servants,  went  out  of  his 
way  to  do  Tusitala  an  act  of  personal  kindness.  In 
expressing  his  gratitude  Stevenson  said,  "  Oh  !  Sosimo, 
great  is  the  service."  "  Nay,  Tusitala,"  replied  the 
Samoan,  "  greater  is  the  love."  The  following  is  the 
Native  Lament  composed  by  one  of  the  Chiefs  at  the 
time  of  Stevenson's  death.  The  translation  is  by  Mr. 
Lloyd  Osborne,  Stevenson's  step-son  and  able  collaborator. 
I  was  allowed  to  copy  the  poems  from  the  little  pamphlet 
kindly  lent  me  by  the  Captain.^ 

NATIVE  LAMENT  FOR  TUSITALA. 

Listen  oh  !    this  world  as  I  tell  of  the  disaster, 
That  befell  in  the  late  afternoon, 
That  broke  like  a  wave  of  the  sea. 
Suddenly  and  swiftly  blinding  our  eyes. 

^  Written  at  the  time  of  his  death   for  distribution  among  his  personal 
friends,  etc. 

50 


Alas  !    for  Lois  who  speaks,  tears  in  his  voice, 
Refrain,  groan,  and  weep,  oh,    my  heart  in  its  sorrow  ! 
Alas  !    for  Tusitala  who  rests  in  the  forest. 

Aimlessly  we  wait  and  wonder.  Will  he  come  again  ? 
Lament,  oh    Vailima,  waiting  and  ever  waiting  ; 
Let  us  search  and  inquire  of  the  Captains  of  Ships, 
"  Be  not  angry,  but  has  not  Tusitala  come  ?  " 
Tuila,  sorrowing  one,  come  hither. 
Prepare  me  a  letter,  I  will  carry  it. 

Let  her  Majesty,  Queen  Victoria,  be  told, 
That  Tusitala,  the  loving  one,  has  been  taken  home. 
Refrain,  groan,  and  weep,  oh,    my  heart  in  its  sorrow  ! 
Alas  !    for  Tusitala,  who  rests  in  the  forest. 

Alas  !    my  heart  weeps  with  anxious  pity. 

As  I  think  of  the  days  before  us. 

Of  the  white  men  gathering  for  the  Christmas  assembly  ; 

Alas  !    for  Alola,^  left  in  her  loneliness. 

And  the  men  of  Vailima,  who  weep  together, 

Their  leader  being  taken  ; 

Refrain,  groan,  and  weep,  oh,    my  heart  in  its  sorrow  1 

Alas  !    for  Tusitala,  who  sleeps  in  the  forest. 

Alas  !    oh,    my  heart,  it  weeps  unceasingly, 

When  I  think  of  his  illness. 

Coming  upon  him  with  so  fatal  a  swiftness, 

^   Alola — literally,  the  "  loved  one." 
51 


Would  that  it  had  waited  a  word  or  a  glance  from  him, 
Or  some  token  from  us  of  our  love. 
Refrain,  groan,  and  weep,  oh,    my  heart  in  its  sorrow  ! 
Alas  !    for  Tusitala  who  sleeps  in  the  forest. 

Grieve  oh,    my  heart !  I  cannot  bear  to  look  on. 

At  the  chiefs  who  are  assembling. 

Alas  !    Tusitala,  thou  art  not  here  ; 

I  look  hither  and  thither  in  vain  for  thee. 

Refrain,  groan,  and  weep,  oh,    my  heart  in  its  sorrow  ! 

Alas  !    for  Tusitala,  he  sleeps  in  the  forest. 


52 


CHAPTER    IV 

The  Aftermath 

'TT^HE  object  of  my  journey  was  attained.  Samoa,  with 
-■-  its  mist-swept  mountains,  its  sun-lit  waterfalls,  its 
gleaming  "  etherial  musky  highlands,"  lay  behind  me,  dim 
as  a  dream,  a  pictured  memory  of  the  past  ;  and  yet  I  had 
not  done  with  the  Islands.  At  two,  if  not  three,  of  the 
Fijian  group,  we  were  to  ship  copra  and  sugar  ;  and  report 
had  said  that  the  Fiji  Islands  were  more  lovely  than  the 
Samoan.  So  I  add  a  valedictory  chapter — an  epilogue  in 
fact — contenting  myself  with  the  very  briefest  of  descrip- 
tions, trusting  that  my  illustrations  will  supply  the 
missing  details. 

We  were  bound  for  Levuka,  and  we  passed  en  route 
the  small  island  of  Apolima,  for  which  Stevenson  conceived 
so  great  an  admiration,  although  I  fancy  he  never  landed 
there,  but  only  saw  it,  as  I  did,  from  the  deck  of  a  steamer. 

53 


Basking  in  the  golden  radiance  of  the  evening  light, 
Apolima  looked  like  the  long-lost  Island  of  Avilion, 

"  Where  falls  nor  rain,  nor  hail,  nor  any  snow, 
Nor  ever  wind  blows  loudly,  but   it  lies 
Deep-meadowed,  happy,  fair  with  orchard  lawns. 
And  bowery  hollows  crowned  with   summer  sea." 

In  the  centre  of  the  island  is  an  extinct  crater,  and  this 
crater  is  all  one  luxuriant  tangle  of  dense  bush.  Here 
and  there  among  the  trees  peeped  out  the  brown  huts  of 
native  Chiefs,  for  Apolima  is  a  sacred  island,  and  only  the 
high  Chiefs  are  privileged  to  dwell  there.  Next  day  we 
sighted  Levuka,  which  looked  more  like  a  mountain  range 
than  an  island. 

The  coral  barrier  extends  for  a  mile  and  a  half  beyond 
the  shore  of  Levuka,  the  reef  showing  occasional  openings, 
and  within  one  of  these  openings  was  the  harbour. 

These  openings  are  like  so  many  gates  into  fields  of 
calm  water,  and  fatal  indeed  would  be  any  attempt  to  force 
a  passage,  for  on  the  treacherous  reef  itself  there  is  always 
to  be  seen  the  line  of  churned-up  foam,  and  always  to  be 
heard,  for  miles  away,  the  thunder  of  the  surf.  Here  was 
the  piteous  spectacle  of  many  a  wreck,  the  bare  ribs  of 
death  showing  above  the  merciless  coral. 


54 


At  Apia  the  harbour  lights  showed  through  the  gaunt 
skeleton  of  the  Adler^  and  just  outside  the  roadstead  of 
Levuka  my  attention  was  drawn  to  all  that  was  left  of  an 
East  Indiaman. 

If  the  coral  could  but  speak  what  tales  might  it  not 
tell  of  poor,  drenched,  fordone  humanity,  clutching  with 
bleeding  hands  at  what  was  so  cruel  and  so  inexorable — 
now  sucked  back  by  the  indrawn  breath  of  the  waves,  and 
now  flung  remorselessly  forward  on  to  the  beautiful,  bared 
teeth  of  the  reef,  until  Death,  more  merciful  than  Life, 
put  an  end  to  their  sufferings. 

As  we  passed  the  reef  I  noticed  that  the  vivid  blue 
within  the  natural  harbour  was  separated  from  the  "foamless, 
long-heaving,  violet  ocean  "  without^  by  a  submarine  rainbow. 

Every  colour  was  here  represented  and  every  gradation 
of  colour.  It  looked  as  if  the  sun  were  shining  below 
the  water  through  the  medium  of  some  hidden  prism. 

"  Is  it  always  beautiful  like  this  ?  "  I  asked  one  of  my 
friends  on  board  who  had  spent  many  years  in  these  parts, 
and  who  with  eyes  intently  gazing  shoreward,  stood  beside 
me  on  the  upper  deck. 

''  Always,"  was  the  prompt  reply,  "  at  least,  I  have 
never  seen  it  otherwise.  Looks  like  a  necklace  of  opals, 
does  it  not  ?  " 


ss 


"  What  causes  the  colour  ?  " 

"  I  have  been  waiting  for  that  question,  and  it's  a 
difficult  one  to  answer.  I  should  say  it  was  due  to  the 
difference  of  depth  at  which  the  patches  of  coral,  seaweed, 
and  white  sand  are  to  be  found,  and  the  effect  of  the  sun- 
shine on  them  through  the  clear,  shallow,  greenish  water 
that  covers  the  irregular  surface  of  the  reef.  The  shades 
of  colour  vary  with  the  ebb  and  flow  of  the  tide.  I've 
seen  it  through  a  golden  haze,  and  I've  seen  it  through  a 
violet  haze,  but  always  with  these  prismatic  colours  ;  it  is 
at  its  very  best  at  noontide.  If  you  look  over  the  side 
of  the  steamer  you  will  see  how  the  colours  lie,  not  on  the 
surface,  but  below  the  water — the  deeper  you  can  see,  the 
more  varied  and  intense  the  colour." 

On  landing  at  Levuka  it  needed  no  one  to  tell  us  that 
desolation  in  the  form  of  a  hurricane  had  recently  swept 
over  the  island.  The  ruined  church  confronted  us,  with 
ruined  houses,  and  toppled  over  palms,  the  entire 
beach  was  strewn  with  broken  shells,  rainbow-coloured 
fragments  of  departed  loveliness.  We  landed  and  took  a 
nearer  survey  of  the  disaster.  At  the  little  noisy  wharf 
crowds  of  natives  pressed  goods  on  us  for  sale,  among 
them  being  lovely  baskets  of  coral,  conch  shells,  sulus  and 
tapa.      The  Roman  Catholic  church  had  escaped,  as  by  a 

S6 


miracle,  for  all  around  it  were  fallen  palms.  We  entered 
and  admired  the  inlaid  (native)  wood  -  work,  and  the 
beautiful  pink  shell,  on  a  carved  wooden  stand,  that  served 
as  a  font. 

We  left  Levuka  in  the  evening  and  reached  Suva 
early  next  morning.  I  was  awakened  by  the  shrill 
trumpeting  of  conch  shells,  and  hurrying  on  deck  I  saw 
alongside  of  us  a  boat  full  of  natives,  several  of  whom  held 
conch  shells  to  their  mouths,  and  made  a  truly  ear-piercing 
sound.  I  attempted  to  buy  the  largest  of  these  shells,  but 
its  native  owner  refused  to  sell  it. 

In  some  respects  Suva  was  the  most  picturesque  island 
that  we  visited.  The  outlines  were  more  rugged  and 
varied  than  those  of  Samoa,  and  the  growth  of  bush  was 
certainly  more  luxuriant.  One  curiously  rounded  mountain 
peak  went  by  the  name  of  The  Devil's  Thumb.  We 
landed  at  seven  o'clock,  in  the  cool  of  the  morning,  and  the 
delicious  fragrance  of  the  air  left  an  abiding  impression. 
After  some  discussion  as  to  the  best  manner  of  spending 
our  last  day  ashore,  we  decided  to  hire  a  little  steam 
launch  and  go  up  the  River  Rewa  as  far  as  the  sugar 
factory  and  plantation.  This  we  did,  and  saw  amongst 
other  novelties  the  scarlet  and  black  land  crabs  that  live 
in   holes   along  the   mud   banks    on    either    side,  as   well 

11 


as  the  oysters  clinging  to  the  branching  roots  of  the  man- 
groves. 

The  sugar  plantation  was  very  interesting,  as  v^e  here 
saw  the  natives  at  work  in  the  cane-fields,  but  the  factory 
was  hot,  sticky,  and  heavy  with  the  nauseating  smell  of 
brown  sugar.  We  returned  at  seven  o'clock,  and  after 
dinner  made  a  tour  of  inspection  in  the  town. 

Suva,  being  the  capital  of  the  Fiji  Islands,  is  quite  an 
imposing  little  place.  There  are  no  turf  roads  here  but 
streets  with  shops  and  pavements,  all  well  lighted,  and  gay 
with  colour.  We  bought  many  curiosities  and  returned 
to  the  steamer  laden  with  our  treasures. 

Next  morning  we  left  for  Sydney,  and  although  we 
touched  at  several  little  atolls  en  route,  we  only  landed  at 
two  of  them,  and  then  only  for  about  an  hour. 

So  ended  my  tour.  I  set  out  on  my  pilgrimage  with 
but  one  end  in  view,  namely,  the  grave.  I  returned  with 
"  rich  eyes  and  poor  hands."  I  had  attained,  but  my 
attainment  was  shadowed  by  regret,  for  I  had  left  my 
heart  behind  me,  "  my  soul "  had  gone  "  down  with 
these  moorings,  whence  no  windlass  might  extract  nor 
any  diver  fish  it  up." 

Finis. 

58 


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